In the Schedule
by Echoing Fantasy
Summary: Walker had always done things by the rules. Ghost Writer had always done things by schedule. Sooner or later, something has to give. Slight Penslammeter pairing.


_In the Schedule_

Walker had a very simple job within the jailing system; he was the Judge, Jury and Executioner, and had the pleasure of locking up those ghosts who had broken the law in some way. Walker loved it, especially when the prey tried to get away, like that ghost boy halfa did. Not all were as lucky, but the chase always sent tingles spiraling down his tail like no tomorrow, the clicking of the heavy collar on their necks the final proverbial slamming of the Judge's hammer of Judgment. When that collar clicked, their fate was sealed, no ifs ands or buts about it.

The law was everything to Walker. It had taught him manners, taught him the way things worked. When you followed the rules, life was good to you; you got what you deserved and were allowed to do things your way. But when you disobeyed those rules, it put a large, red mark on your credit as well as your overall appearance in the eyes of others. You were no longer the truth-teller, the righteous one, but the one that stood out among all the countless others that had done _well _while you had gone and messed up.

Those ghosts that raised true hell were dragged through Walker's prison to the very top of the heap, and executed on the premise as immediately as possible. Pariah Dark was a good example – sadly, Pariah couldn't be killed, only locked up for an uncertain amount of time (until the next fool went and stole the key, most likely). Enemies like that made Walker grind his teeth while he slept, because those enemies were the true reason the law existed – for peace, for justice, and for _reason, _none of which they had.

Danny Phantom was another example, albeit a stranger one. He was a halfa, a cursed child with one foot in both worlds forever more; but at the same time he was an innocent boy that had gotten caught up in a tangle of events so large even Walker failed to fathom them sometimes. Walker longed to know what made the boy tick like he did, but he knew though he might sometimes successfully catch the boy, he could never truly keep him. And it aggravated him. So he came down harder on the incoming criminals, rattled their chains until they went up in smoke, and offered them leniency when they apologized. He was, after all, not an evil sort of ghost.

Yet there was one ward within his prison that he had yet to shake, break, or even put a dent in – the Ghost Writer. The man responsible for ruining their holiday cheer by putting Phantom under a rhyming spell (and what a kick _that _had been) and making them all dance to his ridiculous tune just so he could get a winter novel out of it. In the end, Phantom had managed to shake him (or rather Walker had, with an orange of all things) and he had ended up in Walker's hands, a heavy chain ball around his ankle and a cell to keep him quiet.

The problem with the Ghost Writer though was simply that he was _too _quiet. While most inmates kept to themselves, all made some form of loud complaint during the day, even if it was just once. The Ghost Writer did not speak above a grumbling mutter as he tossed paper after paper off his typewriter and into the trash before starting anew. Another problem was he refused to take breaks or even meals with the rest of the inmates – he stayed in his cell unless called out by Walker himself (and even then, sometimes refused) or during roll-call, when he was still struggling awake, rubbing darkly bagged eyes and yawning silently.

The Writer also did not care about the law. Not one iota, especially not if that law got in the way of his precious schedule. His schedule was to the Writer was the law was to Walker; sacred and to be upheld at all times. Such a thing was evident to Walker every time he walked into the Writer's cell during pat-down times, and found the delicate typist poised over his typewriter, eyes feverish as he wrote.

"Your turn Ghost Writer. Up against the wall, hands spr—" Walker would begin, only to get cut off by a ball of wadded-up paper being thrown squarely at his forehead, bouncing harmlessly off and landing on the floor by his shoe.

"ARGH! Can't you see I'm busy writing? It's not yet time! I have a deadline to meet and no time to spend babbling with you! Shoo! Go on, get out," the Writer would scream, fingers seeming to double their speed in an effort to reach the supposed deadline in time. Walker, unamused, would haul the typist from his work and press him up against the wall with a well-placed knee to hold him while his hands searched the ghost's body for weapons of any sort. And the Ghost Writer, enraged at being pulled from his work, would struggle and spit and snarl until Walker finally let go, at which point he would launch into a furious tirade about how important his work was and _just who did Walker think he was groping him like that, _and –

Walker usually stopped listening after that, if only because Writer's voice gave him a headache like no tomorrow. So he would leave the cell, re-lock the door and leave the huffy writer to throw himself indignantly back into his writing. The Writer always believed Walker left after that, and maybe he did. Other times however, he found himself stopping just as he rounded the c orner, turning on his heel and carefully peering back around. Walker watched the Writer for as long as he dared, studying the way he moved, the way he spoke quietly to himself as he wrote, and regularly argued when he had hit a dead end.

He watched the expressions on his face shift with each new chapter, and found his own undead heart shifting to match the emotions, all the while wondering if this would be considered fraternizing with the enemy. He only watched Writer to learn more about him, to learn what made him tick so he could break him all the more efficiently. He kept the mantra going as each hour passed and the guards changed shifts, and slowly the pile of paper by Writer's left elbow grew. Eventually the ghost typist would yawn and finish one final line, and then get up and move to the bed, taking off his glasses before turning off the lights. And Walker would leave, content for the moment.

But jail only allowed such frivolous things to continue for so long. Walker followed the law, and the Ghost Writer followed his own particular schedule. In Walker's jail, no less. The two continued to bicker and fight, but every time they did so, every resistance Writer gave made Walker angrier. Who was this weakling, to tell him _no _when Walker said it was time for inspection? Who was he, to scream about the _schedule _when the _law _was all that mattered? It was getting to the point where all Walker wanted to do was lop the ghost's head off. But he couldn't, because _that _was against the rules. So instead he tightened his grip, and pushed harder to get the Writer to do what he wanted. And every time the Writer would try to resist, Walker would tighten the proverbial noose a little. Writer would struggle, and Walker would tighten.

It got to the point where Walker was taking delight in it, actively taunting the writer just so he could get a rise out of him. Some part of him knew that this was against the rules, but for the first time Walker didn't care. He only wanted the Writer broken and obedient, nothing more. But in his haste, he began to overlook his other duties, like his daily, sometimes weekly patrols around the prison. And in doing so, he overlooked the escape of a prisoner – something he _never _would have done ordinarily, and the theft of the most beloved possession Walker had.

The Rulebook.

To say Walker was 'put out' could easily replace the word 'understatement' in the dictionary. He was beyond livid, beyond anything. It quickly escalated when after a single search of the jailhouse, he discovered he couldn't find the book anywhere. So the single search turned into a second, then a third search. And a fourth, fifth, sixth after that. It got to the point where Walker lost count of the number of times he had ordered the inmates out of their cells so he could search for the Rulebook. It got to where Walker knew who had what in his or her cell, could easily recite the items off the top of his head.

Some part of him wanted to blame the Ghost Writer for all of this. After all, if the Writer hadn't tried to ruin Christmas, then he wouldn't be in Walker's jail. But then again, if Danny Phantom hadn't burned the Writer's first manuscript, he wouldn't have had to make a second. So in a roundabout way, it was all the fault of Danny Phantom. But that still wasn't enough for Walker – he didn't want to just blame someone, he wanted to _execute _someone, preferably whoever stole his Rulebook.

But not even he could go on rage for long. Exhaustion took its toll all too soon, and he was forced to spend a day to himself, resting and regaining the needed energy. In the morning, he told himself, he would get up and continue the search for his precious Rulebook. He just needed a little bit of sleep…

One day became two, then three. Walker continued to sleep, his body so energy-deprived it had put him in a state akin to a coma. It was the Ghost Writer, shockingly enough, who took over the hunt for the book then. Unlike Walker however, he knew where to find the book, and told the guards as much. The guards were smart enough to realize that a discovered Rulebook meant a happy Walker and no more random searches; they let the Ghost Writer out of his cell as a temporary boss.

It turned out to be a wise decision. He wasn't an unreasonable leader, merely preferring the jail stay quieter than normal and the inmates not make too much trouble. Within a day he had everyone under his control, either by his powers or subtle persuasion, and a few hours after that the Rulebook was in his grasp. It was torn, spit on, and some of the pages had been mangled so bad the ink was almost impossible to make out. The Writer stared at it, utterly horrified. It was true he didn't exactly like Walker anymore than the rest of them, but not so much that he'd destroy what Walker had attempted to build. Besides, he knew how precious the book was to Walker, not only as _the rules, _but as a physical object. To the Writer's knowledge, there was only one of that Rulebook in existence, and this was it. And now it was ruined. Looking at it reminded him of all those months ago, when Danny Fenton had unintentionally destroyed his Christmas poem (the first version anyway, the second was much better).

His fingers itched and his typewriter called. Taking a deep breath, he told the nearest guard, "Fetch me fifty pounds of paper and as much ink as you can find in this place. And make it quick. I only have until Walker wakes up to fix this damnable thing, and I don't know how many rules are in this—oh dear _god. _On second thought, make that _eighty _pounds of paper and as much ink as you can manage."

Then the Ghost Writer sat down, opened the first page of the Rulebook, and began to type.

* * *

It took three weeks for Walker to wake up. When he did, it was to the knowledge that the jailhouse was oddly quiet – not completely silent, which would have startled him awake, but quiet. It was a nice sound, and Walker sighed, nuzzling his pillow a little bit. He really didn't want to get up today, but he needed to make sure the guards were still patrolling and the rules were being enfo—

_The Rulebook was missing._

In a split second Walker went from sleepy contentment to utter awareness, the shock of the realization forcing him up and out of his bunk. He grabbed his hat from the stand beside his desk and rushed out the door, nails biting into his palms as his anger made itself known again. He needed to find his Rulebook, wherever it—

Walker screeched to a halt as he passed the Ghost Writer's cell, realizing a moment later there was no sound coming from it. Backtracking, he stared at the sight before him. There was no Ghost Writer within the cell, but perhaps more importantly, his Rulebook was sitting right there, shiny and new, on the desk that had once housed the typewriter. In a sort of shocked state he opened the cell door and reached out to pick up the book, eagerly flipping it open. It smelt different, he realized. The Rulebook had smelled like old paper before, but now it smelled new; he could even smell the ink.

All the rules were there though, in darker ink than he recalled. Everything was okay. The book was back, and the Ghost Writer… wait, where was the Ghost Writer?

A note in the back provided the answer. Tugging the tape off the back, his eyes scanned the curved lines that made up the Writer's natural handwriting.

_Walker,_

_By the time you read this, I imagine I'll be far out in the Ghost Zone, well beyond your reach. Before you panic and come to snag me back, your guards let me out for good behavior. The way they figured it, finding your destroyed Rulebook and completely remaking it in a span of two and a half weeks is more than enough good behavior to let me out. _

_Yes, you moron, I rewrote your little book. You know, you should really consider investing in copies. That way next time, if it gets stole and __**destroyed, **__I won't have to remake it. Of course knowing you, that's probably against the rules too. Fine then. The next time your stupid book gets wrecked (which it __**will, **__trust me on that!) call the number below and I'll come back and fix it for you. It's not like I've got anything better to do. Besides, the book gives me a nice challenge._

_~Signed,_

_The Ghost Writer (3952-111-083)_

Walker stared at the note in amazement, then back to his book. No, it was no longer just his book, but the Writer's as well. Somehow that thought put him in a better mood. Smiling, he tucked the note carefully into his pocket and walked out, leaving behind an empty desk and the smell of ink.


End file.
